


Midas Touch

by itsallaboutzarry



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Crush, Happy Ending, M/M, Neighbors AU, Pining, Some Fluff, Some angst, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Uni AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn knows his legs are long enough to take him up the stairs two at a time and that he probably has the weirdest collection of shirts he's ever seen – colors floating around the building. And that his name is Harry. </p><p>Or, Zayn has a crush on his upstairs neighbor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midas Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I had a lot of fun writing this, even if I was a bit pressed with time. Anyway, I tried to combine two of your prompts and I hope I did a well enough job.  
> A special thank you goes out to the creators of the exchange, especially for the patience while I took my time writing this.  
> It's all fiction, I don't own anything.  
> Here goes.

There’s this boy. There’s a boy, but when Zayn’s concerned, there’s always been _a boy_ , a coloring book, an innocent sense of attraction or a clueless pair of almond shaped eyes. Mostly, there’s always a boy though, whether it be in kindergarten when Zayn was five, high school when Zayn was desperately pining in a pit of angst or now, because college was not the time for Zayn to find anything else than a warm hand, a pair of lips or a mattress to crash on. Because now Zayn doesn’t have projects or classes or papers to focus on, so he’s concentrating on his work and the upstairs neighbor who probably doesn’t even know Zayn exists. If Zayn had a crush on Mrs. Dubcek, things would be much easier.

He can hear her already, walking up the four steps to get to their building’s front entrance, over the jiggle of his keys and the cars passing behind his back – he can hear Dubcek scattering around her apartment to get ready to ambush Zayn as soon as he trots to their floor.

She’s a sweet old lady, Zayn keeps telling himself, like he has to repeat it over and over until he believes it, because at the back of his mind, the word _crazy crazy crazy_ is stuck on an endless loop, just as _lonely_ is. But she’s not that bad. She doesn’t mean any harm, which Zayn supposes is the important thing, but the constant chats and questions and even invitations for dinner since late have gone a bit out of hand. Not that they were ever kept to the normal amount.

On the nights when Zayn can’t sleep, because the draft from his window is licking at his skin uncomfortably or the traffic – the two cars that pass once every fifteen minutes – are too loud, the air above his head too hot, too humid, too heavy; when Zayn finds himself lying on his couch and staring at his stained ceiling, he swears he can hear how Dubcek has a glass pressed up against their joint wall, listening to every breath Zayn takes. On the nights when Zayn can’t sleep, he doesn’t know if he can blink without Dubcek knowing about it too.

“Oh, darling, it’s you!” is the first thing Zayn hears as soon as he has one foot inside his apartment. “How’ve you been doing?”

It’s what she does though, she lurks, she’s a lurker and Zayn suspects a bit of a peeping tom as well – he deeply sympathizes with the people living in the building opposite them. She means well and she’s a sweet old lady – most times, it’s just unsettling how she’s always _there_ when Zayn unlocks his door or when he gets home during the kind of hours an eighty year old should be sound asleep. Like right now, for instance, because Zayn’s just finished his shift at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, yet here she is, smiling as brightly at him as she does at four in the afternoon.

Plain and simple: it’s strange how invested she is in every tenants life, like she’s somehow related to all of them, like a grandmother to a random collection of perfect strangers. The kind of grandma that would always give you seconds to eat, even when you were completely full with our fly unzipped.

On top of it all though, she always pretends to be surprised to see Zayn, as if she doesn’t stand behind her door ready to pounce. It’s always with ‘oh darling’ that Zayn’s greeted, always an inquisitive ‘how are you’ that follows, a too invested ‘how’s work’ that almost sends a shiver down Zayn’s spine. And Zayn is many things – he’s stubborn, quiet, clueless – but he’s never been rude nor anything other than perfectly polite. He’s the best neighbor anyone could ask for, always answering Dubcek with a bright smile that’s wide enough to show her his teeth just for the added effect.

“Work’s keeping me busy,” Zayn says with that exact smile, nodding his head as he keeps stealthily moving towards his front door. “Nothing too bad though.”

“Well you must be starving right about now, huh?”

And because Zayn knows where this is going, he says, “Oh no, just ate an early breakfast,” but because he’s also a coward that wants to be as convincing as he possibly can, he rubs at his stomach. He knows he looks as awkward as he feels.

“Oh.” Dubcek’s face falls a little, Zayn can see how the wrinkles around her left eye twitch uncomfortably. “Okay then. Good night, I guess,” she says, back at it again with a grin.

“Good night,” Zayn nods, and half runs to his door, unlocking it in record time and almost falling through the door. He feels bad for it, but as soon as he’s able to lean against the safety of the hard wood, he sighs in relief and closes his eyes, already feeling how sleep is settling deep in his bones.

\--

His name was Kevin. He had this bowl-haircut, the kind your mother does with a wide grin and compliments of what a handsome young boy you are – and you’re young enough to believe her. Kevin needed a haircut though, Zayn distinctly remembers how he had strand of it falling over his big brown eyes, shading the amber, almost golden color he was drawn to in the first place.

Zayn didn’t know then, when he was five, why he liked this boy so much. Zayn didn’t know why he couldn’t muster the courage to talk to him, to even say hello to the boy that always sat on the swing next to Zayn. They spent their afternoons together, swinging higher than the day before, dragging their feet on the ground to lift the dust, to make it look like they were racing.

When Zayn thinks about Kevin today, he only remembers his haircut, his eyes and the coloring book Zayn gave him when he finished it, when all the lines were filled in. There’s a childish sense of bewilderment that tinges those memories, because at twenty-five, Zayn knows what he was doing, what that feeling in the pit of his tummy was when he looked over at Kevin laughing high in the air, only wanting to go higher. Back then, when Zayn was learning to read and to write, when desserts were of the highest priority in his life, he didn’t, Zayn had no idea. Zayn can laugh about it now – in high school, he thinks he probably cried.

Zayn tries not to think about Kevin anymore. Or Zayn thinks he tries not to think about those kinds of things anymore, but some nights, when he’s keeping his breathing in time with the leaky faucet, _drop drop drop_ , and the last thing he wants to do is fall asleep, there are a couple of thoughts he can’t keep at bay.

It’s easier in the evenings, right before his shifts, when Zayn’s sniffing for his cleanest shirt and stainless jeans, trying to get his hair out of his eyes and remembering to tie his shoelaces to avoid last week’s almost-fall down the stairs. It’s made even easier by Simone and Marybeth, his two neighbors from the bottom from, who, in Zayn’s eyes, are real-life archenemies.

Simone is a sixty-something retired shop assistant with more birds than anyone should know what to do with. There’s the occasional feather that slips from her front door and right into Zayn’s face, but he can’t do more than laugh at it and swat it away, because she’s actually quite nice. Across from her apartment, though, is Marybeth, who is just as retired and just as big of an animal lover, except Marybeth has cats. And like their animals, the two tenants don’t exactly get along.

Zayn thinks it might be nature, like a part of their instinct, to hate on any predator or person with a different mindset to avoid any accidents, like the time one of Beth’s cats wandered into the hallway and Simone called the ASPCA on her. That month’s tenant’s meeting was something else entirely – Zayn made himself invisible in the back and tried not to give off any signs of being a dog person. He doesn’t know what they would’ve done to him otherwise.

And now they’re back at it again, with the typical, “How dare you?” being yelled from one end of the hall to the classic, “Are you out of your mind?” that’s become Simone’s _thing_ to annoy Marybeth with. Really, they’re both innocent and sweet, like most of Zayn’s neighbors – with the exclusion of Ivanka and Miloš, but that’s a different story. They’re gonna quiet down soon though, because if not anything else, they respect the rule of ‘No noise after 11 pm’. Everybody does, Zayn has massive plushy headphones to prove it.

It’s the same pair of headphones he had in college, when he was staying in the loud part of the dorm, the party section, the one where Louis was in charge. It’s how they met – Zayn had stomped right up to his room one night to bang on his door, because he couldn’t hear himself think anymore, couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the thumping bass. Zayn had an exam the next day on the importance of Renaissance painting, and he couldn’t fail, he wasn’t supposed to get anything but a perfect grade on it.

Louis had opened his door in what Zayn knows now is his nonchalant way of approaching something that makes him nervous, all raised chin and puffed out chest. But Zayn meant business, he wasn’t there to ask nicely or plea with Louis. He pointed his finger and aimed it right at Louis chest, threatening with the only thing he had – if Zayn failed because of Louis’ tasteless loud music, he’d be the one to explain it to his parents and Louis wouldn’t want to be the one to break the news to Zayn’s mom.

And it worked, almost better than Zayn thought it would. Louis had turned down his music with his hands raised in surrender, an apology on his tongue and a friendship waiting to happen. Zayn never thought he’d make a friend like Louis in college, but now instead of being the loud kid down the hall, he’s Zayn’s loud best friend who’s always happy to see him, because it means Zayn’s come to replace him on their post at work. Best friend and coworker – loud or not, Zayn knows he’s lucky to have someone like Louis in his life.

“You’re finally here!” is the first thing Zayn hears when he walks through the door, making the bell above his head ring. “I thought you abandoned me forever.”

“Louis,” Zayn shakes his head. “You’ve had a seven hour day shift.”

“Well excuse me, but it felt like at least nine hours and you know how I get.”

“Annoying? Yeah, I know.”

“Zayn,” Louis gasps, even grabs his chest in mock shock. “How can you disrespect your elders like that?”

“Oh will you go home already.” It’s Niall that pipes up from behind them, wiping his forehead with a towel. Zayn doesn’t know how Niall hasn’t melted in the scorching heat of the kitchen already.

“Disrespectful, the both of you.” Louis raises his nose and walks to the back. He takes long enough for Zayn to put his backpack under the counter and strap on his perfectly black apron. He’ll be damned if he ruins another shirt with overflowing ketchup. When Louis emerges again, it’s with his head still high, but as he makes his way to the door and opens it with a whoosh, he stops and says a serious, “I’ll call you later, Zayn. Have a good shift.”

It’s one of the reasons why Louis’ his best friend, Zayn thinks with a smile as he watches him walk around the corner of the diner before he disappears behind the wall. Louis is as loud as he’s passionate, loyal and straightforward. He’d never let Zayn down, never let him overthink or stay in his head for too long. As much as Louis loves to overact at the best of times, he’s the most genuine person Zayn’s met in college. What you see is what you get, and that’s exactly what Zayn needs – no puzzles or enigmas for him to make himself sick over.

His shift goes as it does every Friday. There’s a bit of a crowd from midnight till one in the morning – the partiers, the outgoing people that come in groups of at least five and eat the greasiest fries Niall can make. Then it’s the odd singles, the people Zayn always wonders about that come in for a milkshake at three in the morning, like it’s most normal thing to do – like Zayn’s fingers don’t itch to draw them. And sometimes he does. He always brings his sketchpad with him for these customers, the ones that sit in the corner both and order a ‘black coffee, thanks’ or ‘do you have plain toast?’. But especially for the ones that look Zayn from beneath their lashes, biting their lips or nail as they ask a quiet, ‘Can I just sit here for a while? Please?’

Those customers are the ones Zayn never turns away and it’s good that he’s on the night shift, because he doesn’t think Louis would be as kind, or still bring them a glass of water and some food – whatever Niall makes them on the spot. Zayn usually sits behind the counter with his pad in his lap and his fingers fiercely gripping the pencil as he draws lines and shapes, sad and open eyes, with furrowed brows and raw lips. And even if Zayn graduated three years ago studying art history, making his parents so proud and happy, he works in a diner now. But Zayn thinks it’s alright.

He knows he isn’t breaking any waves, that he’s just flowing along with them, happily and with no need to strive for more, he’s happy. Zayn’s standing on his own two feet, he’s happy with the way his life is at the moment. His life’s good, with the occasional flood of homesickness that Louis tries to vanish as soon as he senses it in the air; it’s good that Zayn’s independent, that he has his own place and his own life, even if just barely above the mark of ‘living hand to mouth’.

\--

There was a boy in high school, a different boy who gave Zayn a specifically novel feeling that Zayn could sense all the way down from his toes to the tops of his ears when he saw him in the halls. A boy, Tad Jones, who sat in front of Zayn in math class, biology and English lit for four years.

This boy was tall, blonde and he had the kind of muscles wrapped around his arms Zayn wouldn’t know what to do with. He had a good idea of what he wanted those arms to do to him, but that’s beside the point. Tad was never too far away from Zayn for four years of high school, which was good, because Zayn could pass glances anytime he wanted, burning imaginary holes in the back of Ted’s head, into his eyes and torso. Zayn still remembers Tad’s torso. For four years, Zayn was able to sit next to him during social studies, even be in a group project with him and three other students that one time in chem labs.

Zayn always listened when Tad raised his hand to answer a question, because Tad always had the answer to all of the teacher’s questions. He was a smart kid with a penchant for football, which is probably the reason Zayn never missed a single class and always gave his best in gym class. Tad was probably the only reason Zayn didn’t just skip gym altogether.

The bad thing, though, was that Tad, the main protagonist of all of Zayn’s teenage daydreams, had a girlfriend. He was dating this girl from class, this beautiful girl who was just as smart, just as naturally athletic – the captain of the volleyball team. It didn’t deter Zayn’s daydreams, maybe it distorted them when he saw them giggling together in the cafeteria, or when all Tad could talk about during that chem lab was Stacey, the love of his life

When Zayn thinks about Tad now, he’s sure him and Stacey are still together, with 2.5 kids, a suburban house and absolutely average jobs that make them slightly frustrated but no less happy. Maybe they have a dog; Zayn can be so kind to give them a golden retriever.

When Zayn thinks about Ted now, he also thinks about college, where there were even more boys and that one girl when Zayn was drunk and thought he’d experiment _just to be sure_ – he doesn’t know what he was thinking back then. Zayn’s always been _sure_ , ever since Kevin and their swings. It’s something Zayn’s always known, because there’s always been a boy.

Kevin had piercing eyes and no intention of making fun of Zayn, both were enticing at five years old, enough for Zayn to still carry Kevin’s name around. Tad was smart and hot, the picture of every teenager’s wet dream. But this boy, Zayn’s upstairs neighbor, isn’t exactly Zayn’s type – if he even has a type. Well, Zayn doesn’t think he is or that he has. There’s something about not interacting with your neighbors when you only work night shifts and rarely come out during the day that Zayn’s very intimate with. He thinks they all know he works in a diner, but his night owl-ness must’ve started a rumor or too. Hopefully Dubcek set them all straight.

The boy also never comes to the tenant’s monthly meeting, so Zayn hasn’t had the chance to see more than his fleeting form running up the stairs or the occasional shadow passing him on the halls when Zayn comes back from his shift – exhausted and senseless to the world.

All Zayn really knows about this boy is that he lives upstairs – across from Al, the old guy without an arm that Zayn only sees _at_ the meeting. Zayn knows his legs are long enough to take him up the stairs two at a time and that he probably has the weirdest collection of shirts he's ever seen – colors floating around the building. And that his name is Harry.

There’s more Zayn knows about Simone or Dubcek, but the latter’s a given, because she’s an over-sharer on top of everything. It’s the bare minimum a person needs to say that yeah, sure, I know the guy. It’s exactly what Zayn expected to know of his neighbors, except that this boy’s perked his interested and knowing nothing more than Harry’s name isn’t enough most times, when Zayn’s curtains are blocking out the sun, except for that one ray that always peeks through on the right side and the world is waking up just as he’s trying to fall asleep.

The diner’s close enough to his building that Zayn never leaves more than ten minutes before his shift. Sometimes it’s five minutes and he counts his faster steps as a workout. There’s two blocks straight where Zayn tries to count his steps, because it’d be neat to know how many he had to make, but by the time we rounds the corner and walks for another block, he never knows where he’s at. He’s been told he gets stuck in his head too much, and on the days where he loses track after nine, ten, eleven, Zayn can’t do much more than agree.

Saturdays are as much fun as Fridays, with even more customers, a heavier load of fries and burgers he has to carry to customers who won’t remember eating there in the morning. The flow of those peculiar customers is also bigger; enough so, that all the corner booths are taken and some are left to sit in the wide open of either the counter stool or one of the center booths. Zayn can feel their discomfort.

“Finally, the pretty one is here!” Louis yells over his shoulder as soon as Zayn walks into the place. And before Zayn can groan and roll his eyes, he hears Niall’s cackle from the back.

“I swear, I’m not gonna come to work one day and you’ll be left with a long ass shift, Louis.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Louis gasps – the drama queen.

“Wanna bet?” Zayn smirks, because they both know he would totally do that. He’d do it right now if Louis wouldn’t go chasing after him.

“You know what?” Louis asks as he takes off his apron and throws it in his bag, looking at Zayn with that _look_ customers usually complain about. “I don’t like you anymore.”

“Oh what a shame.”

“That’s right. You _should_ be ashamed of yourself.”

“Wanna come by tomorrow?” Zayn doesn’t look at Louis as he asks, because he’s otherwise busy with putting his apron on and pretending to look for something important in his backpack.

He can hear Louis scoff though, the way he looks at Zayn and waits until he grows impatient and huffs an annoyed, “Yeah yeah, I’ll be there,” before he turns around and leaves with a final, “I’m never coming back though.”

“You say that now!” Niall comes to a stand next to Zayn, yelling through his palm.

“I do, Niall. Sadly I do.” With a raised hand, like he’s biding his last farewell before at least going off to war, Louis says, standing in front of the window. He goes as far as saluting, turning around and walking away. It’d be funnier if he really wouldn’t be back on Monday for his morning shift.

“And how are you doing? In a better mood than that one, hopefully?”

Zayn chuckles, thinking his own thoughts that he’d rather not say. Instead, he goes with, “I don’t think I could be in a worse one.”

Niall gags like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard when really it’s the truth. Louis has his dramatics and overreactions, a flare with his attitude that not every customer can handle, but Zayn’s mellow, he’s simple and he does the most he can to _not_ complicate his life unnecessarily. Louis, however, is of the opposite mindset.

“How are you man? Still going out with, um…”

“Barbara?”

“Yeah, her.”

“Nah…” Niall shakes his head, and for how happy he was about seeing her just last week, his smile tells Zayn Barbara might already be half forgotten. “I got a date with Chelsea in the morning, one of those brunch things.”

“Proper Sunday date then,” Zayn agrees, like he knows what he’s talking about. He’s never been on a date in his life, more of the meet them, sleep with them and regret ever doing it in the first place kind of thing. And it’s not because Zayn’s never been proposed a date, it’s not because no one’s interested – it’s Zayn. He’s the one that doesn’t want to sit and talk with a person he already knows he doesn’t like. Especially if said person is drunk of their ass when asking. Zayn likes to think he has better things to do with his life.

“You gotta wine and dine them. Show you’re in it for more than just a casual hookup.” Niall’s face is doing this strange serious thing Zayn doesn’t see often. His brows are pulled together and he’s nodding slowly as he talks, like he’s speaking words of wisdom.

“Isn’t that what it’s about though?”

“Ha!” The easiest thing has to be to make Niall laugh, it just has to. “I’m looking for something more serious now, actually.”

“Oh, sorry, I had no idea,” Zayn rolls his eyes and opens the register to count the money. Looks like it’s been a busy day.

“Just because I never get to the serious part doesn’t mean it isn’t what I want,” Niall says with a wink, like he’s making any sense at all.

“Whatever you say, Niall,” Zayn nods. “Now come on, let’s get ready for the shift.”

“I swear, one day, I’m not gonna be able to run the smell of burning oil off of me.” With that and a sour expression that still manages to let through a bit of his smile, Niall walks around the counter to get to his kitchen.

There’s Niall, who works with Zayn. Robert’s the one that gets paid a couple bucks extra because he has to suffer Louis on his shifts and then Marge and Tommy, the owners of the place that work mornings. All in all, they’re a good team that gets along most of the time, if Louis doesn’t get any crazy ideas about ‘improvements’. Marge was excited about Louis’ ideas at first, but when the first two or three flopped, she finally understood why Zayn was always shaking his head at her behind Louis’ back. Zayn only has what’s best for everyone in mind.

Zayn’s shift is supposed to go like all the others before. Big groups of drunks, multiple orders of large fries and strawberry milkshakes people regret at first sip. Those individuals that end up on the pages of Zayn’s sketchbook and the rarity here and there, like a couple that comes in at half past one in the morning to share a pie. Clearly in love and looking for a romantic memory to share down the line of their relationship, Zayn leaves them be and rather hangs around the door to the back, talking with Niall.

Except, it’s not Zayn’s usual Saturday shift, because from three till six in the morning, when he closes up the place for Marge to open again on Monday, they usually don’t get any special customers. There are those with early shift that come for coffee and breakfast at five, sure, all regular customers Zayn’s seen enough to small-talk with if they’re awake enough. But besides those, there’s no one else, no one that makes Zayn’s fingers itch or call Niall to bring around his bat.

It’s not the usual Saturday of reading a book until Zayn can’t tell the words apart anymore without having a coffee himself. He doesn’t go around the diner at half past five to fill up the salt and pepper shakers, the ketchup bottles on the counter. Zayn doesn’t even think about having to mop up the place or putting the dishes in the washer, because as soon as Zayn thinks happily about only having an hour left before he can sleep for twelve, his upstairs neighbor, the boy, Harry, walks in.

Zayn’s sitting at the register with a book half-forgotten in his lap when he sees a figure walking past the front windows on the left and Zayn doesn’t pay it much attention, because unless they come close to the door, they aren’t Zayn’s business. But then he spots a bright color from the corner of his eye, like a flash of pink that makes him raise his head and squint. So when Harry walks up to the door and pushes it open, takes the first steps inside the diner, Zayn’s squinting at him like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. And well, Zayn can’t.

He doesn’t move as Harry navigates himself around the booths until he plops down on one, seemingly random bench and slides inside until he’s pressed almost up against the window, with his back towards Zayn. But Zayn doesn’t move, not for a couple of minutes, even though he can clearly see that Harry doesn’t reach for the menu, which usually means he already knows what he wants and Zayn should hurry up. He doesn’t though, because he’s still squinting.

It’s like he’s been thrown off a cliff, off a plane, into a pit of fire – or at least that’s what his heart seems to think, beating up in Zayn’s ears like it’s trying to escape. When he manages to blink, Zayn sits up straighter and flexes his fingers, because his hands are shaking, vibrating like they’re trying to tell something to Zayn – maybe that he should go take Harry’s order or maybe that he should go hide in the back and make Niall do it.

Whatever it is, Zayn tries not to listen as he takes his pad of paper and a pen out of his apron. He jumps off the stool and hopes his legs don’t just sporadically give out. Not that they have before, so Zayn’s not quite sure why he’s thinking about that, but he’s not really sure what he even is thinking about as he makes his way to Harry’s booth – the only occupied one in the whole place.

Zayn’s had some nasty customers to deal with, like the typical mean drunks, the disrespecting teens, the clueless and helpless, the lost, the wandering, but especially a lot of mean drunks. And he knows what to do, how to mold his face, to seem completely disinterested in them with enough of a smile on his lips to make them feel like he’s up to something. That they should maybe be afraid of him.

It’s really all about customer service, how you have to have a persona for each person that you serve, because you can’t approach a granny, a kid or a forty year old man with a drinking problem with the same attitude. And Zayn’s been working in the diner for long enough to know his way around how to get the tips to keep on coming. But as he stands in front of Harry, he doesn’t know if he should smile, keep a straight face or be all friendly and neighborly, like they’re all pals from college and Zayn can’t believe they’ve just run into each other here, of all places.

In the end, Zayn goes with, “Hi, what can I get you,” as he stares down at his pad. Which is none of those options. After three years, Zayn’s learned how to keep a regular eye contact with a customer. He’s nothing like what he was when he started, all mumbling and spilled drinks, nervous like is now for each and every customer that walked into the diner. He remembers regretting ever getting into the service business, until he just got over it and dealt with it the best way he knew how – by being stubborn enough and with a lot of help from Louis.

“Hi,” Harry smiles back, Zayn can see from underneath is lashes and he keeps doodling lines on his pad, doing his best to not look directly at Harry. “I’ll have one blueberry pancake and a glass of water, please.”

And well, the order is enough for Zayn to look up. “One pancake?” he asks, probably too sharply for a both his job and the person he’s asking.

But Harry just nods at him. “Yes, please.”

“Okay,” Zayn shrugs, writes it down on the pad and says a quick, “Coming right up,” before he can finally walk away.

It’s somewhat of a relief, really, to be standing in the kitchen with Niall, where he can’t see Harry and Harry can’t see him.

“What do you need?” Niall asks with a grin, a spatula already in his hand.

“One blueberry pancake.” This time, Zayn’s voice is cautious, because before he even repeated Harry’s order, he knew what Niall’s response will be.

“One?”

“Yes, one blueberry pancake.”

“You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Um, no. I’m really not.”

“Who in their right mind,” Niall starts, throwing his hands around, but he grabs the pancake batter and gets the blueberry’s out of the fridge, “orders one single pancake. Who do they think they are? Some kind of celebrity or something? This is a diner for god’s sake. We serve food, not crazy whims.”

“Niall…”

“Shit, are they famous?” Niall stops everything altogether so he can turn towards Zayn with expectant eye that Zayn doesn’t want to disappoint.

“Actually, it’s my neighbor?”

“Oh god, is it Dubcek?” Niall groans and Zayn laughs. She’s known to come by the place sometimes and Zayn doesn’t really mind, because out of the two of them, she’s more interested in Niall.

“No,” Zayn drawls. He hasn’t noticed, but he’s being twisting the pad in his hands, like it’s full of water and he needs to wring it out. “It’s one of my upstairs neighbors.”

“Oh, well tell him to order like a normal person next time.” Niall’s shaking his head as he flips the pancake and makes it sizzle on the pan. It’s a bit of a complex he has, with people ordering ridiculously small portions of food, like extra small fries or a veggie burger with just the salad – Zayn thought Niall’s head was going to explode that day.

But like the great chef that he is, Niall makes the pancake and adds extra blueberries around the plate with a smidgen of whipped cream on the side, just in case the _one_ pancake isn’t enough. Zayn smiles down at the plate as he carries it out, but then as soon as he remembers who it’s for, he almost turns back around. He doesn’t though, because somewhere in the back of his mind, Zayn knows he’s being ridiculous. It’s just…

Zayn’s never talked to a boy like this before, to Kevin or god forbid Tad, who was the most popular kid in high school. Zayn’s just looked, just stared and wished and dreamt, but never actually talked. And it was different in college, when he was drunk and everyone else was drunk and no one remembered each other’s names for longer than three hours tops. It’s different when Louis’ right next to Zayn, because then he can be the quiet mysterious one that really only has to look. It’s different, because he’s never been this close to someone he thought about late at night when the water stains on his ceiling were particularly interesting.

So Zayn tries his best – which is all he can do at his point – to pour Harry a glass of water and get the pancake to him while it’s still hot and eatable. Harry, probably clueless to how Zayn almost dropped his plate right behind his back – that hasn’t happened his first week at the diner – smiles his thanks as Zayn sets the plate in front of him.

He says a quick, “Enjoy,” and is ready to walk back to the counter where he can think about ways to not humiliate himself completely, when Harry clears his throat and looks up at him. Zayn doesn’t know why he’s so nervous – Tad never had this effect on him.

“Do you have your break soon?” Harry asks with what Zayn can see is a hint of a smile. But just because he can see the smile and hears the question, doesn’t mean Zayn’s not completely confused.

Zayn never really goes on a break. He asks Niall to watch the front while he smokes out back in the alley, or if the place’s empty and the hour tells him it’s gonna be that way for a while, Zayn goes for a quick cigarette in front of the diner. He’s okay with his sketchpad or with Niall, who makes him scrambled eggs or waffles to nibble on during his shift. So Zayn never really goes on a break, but now that Harry’s asking, Zayn finds himself saying, “Yeah, it’s coming up soon,” as if he doesn’t have to close the diner in less than an hour.

Harry nods at his answer and then looks up and down along the booths, checking to see they’re the only ones in the whole place. He looks down at his pancake and licks his lips before he says, “Wanna sit down? Keep me company?”

And because Zayn’s never been propositioned like this by a boy, a boy he _liked_ , he shrugs and sits down on the bench opposite Harry, wiping his hands on his apron before he puts them on the table in front of him. Zayn’s thought about this, getting a chance to hang out with Tad when he was sixteen and wildly optimistic, and he had wondered about what he’d say, in a situation like this, when all the cards are open and the metaphorical ball is metaphorically in his field.

There were these ‘Get to know’ questions Zayn saw someone share on Facebook once, when he was in college and Facebook was still a _thing_. Questions like ‘What’s your perfect morning,’ ‘What do you regret most in life,’ or Zayn’s personal favorite, ‘If you had three wishes, what would they be?’ The questions are so clichéd it’s sickening, but also kind of perfect, especially for the people who are so nervous when they meet a boy they like, their brain kind of freezes up, like the thoughts floating around their head are below zero, so frightful they’re covered in ice.

It’s what’s happening now, as Zayn manages to break his deep eye contact with his hands for long enough to see Harry smiling brightly at him, like he’s the opposite of nervous. Harry seems downright relaxed sitting opposite Zayn with a plate of pancakes in front of him, practically having the time of his life when Zayn’s a second away from jumping out of his skin. He doesn’t remember any of those questions, not a single one word of the article Zayn would never admit he read comes to mind now that he’d actually need it.

Not that Harry’s bothered, because he only blinks at Zayn once more before he’s grabbing for his fork and knife, and starts on the pancake. “I just like sitting with someone when I eat,” Harry shrugs, carrying the first forkful to his mouth. Zayn doesn’t know where to look when Harry’s tongue pokes past his lips, pink and wet. “I guess I don’t like being left alone.”

Harry says it without hesitation or preamble or a single worry of how that makes him sound. Like it’s not something close to what took Zayn years to figure out – that he likes being left alone sometimes, though Zayn’s never admitted to it so lightly.

“Oh.” It’s all that Zayn says. So they sit there, both probably too concentrated on the pancake – though more than cutting it in pieces and sticking it to his fork, Zayn’s looking at how Harry carries it to his mouth, catching the tips of it with his tongue first, before he starts chewing like Zayn suspects he does everything – a bit showy and well aware.

Zayn’s beginning to think it’s all a dream. And while Zayn’s pinching his thigh underneath the table to make sure, Harry sips on his water. Literally sips, one drop at a time, until he says, “Thank you, Zayn. You’ve been a great company this morning,” with a wide grin that settles somewhere deep in Zayn’s stomach.

Harry stands up, gives Zayn a twenty, says “Keep the change,” with a wink and leaves.

Zayn still thinks it’s a dream.

\--

The second floor has the most traffic. There are two apartments on each floor and Zayn’s downstairs neighbors are either professional entertainers or Tim, and no one knows anything about Tim. Ivanka and Miloš on the other hand are retired Russian ballroom dancers and Zayn’s not quite clear on that concept, but he’s pretty sure it’s a part of their carefully crafted back story they tell everyone to keep their cover.

They all have theories: Simone says they run some kind of brothel, Dubcek is convinced they’re Russian spies put to get ‘them’, Zayn thinks they’re old school drug dealers and Marybeth, ever the hopeless romantic, always insists on Ivanka and Miloš giving her a twirl, because she believes their story. That’s why they never invite her to gossip and it’s also why Zayn’s always invited. Apparently, he has some good theories.

When it comes down to it, Ivanka and Miloš aren’t that bad. Mostly, they keep a healthy amount of strangers coming in and out of their building. There are women that look scarily like Ivanka, all tall and thin, with lips that Simone says aren’t natural on girls like them, not with breasts like those. Zayn and Dubcek trust her instincts. And then there are what they presume, Miloš’s cousins – bulky guys with sharp broken noses that could bench lift Zayn in his sleep if they wanted. But they never cause more than the normal amount of noise Dubcek still allows without calling the police, and the only thing that even Marybeth somehow overlooks are the suspicious duffle-bags they all carry in and out. Dubcek said that until the police don’t come knocking themselves, she isn’t paid anything to knock herself.

So they let them be and try to keep their voices down.

Tim, though, or Lanky Guy as Zayn’s gotten used to calling him is another story. They know less about him than Zayn does about Harry. All they do know and what Zayn’s noticed when he first saw him on the hallway were his eyes, as big as the sky and as blue as those clouds that bring rain with them. And Lanky Guy is tall enough to reach a cloud if he wanted to.

He’s probably an okay guy that’s just a little sky and likes to keep to himself. Really, he seems a lot like Zayn in everything but appearance, which must’ve been the deciding note when it came to Dubcek. Zayn thinks she might have had more luck getting Tim over for one of her dinners.

It’s one of the things Zayn does when he isn’t working. He sleeps, he draws and he gossips about his neighbors when he isn’t thinking about them right before he drifts off. Zayn also hangs out with Louis, either at the diner, showing up a good hour before his shift starts because he has nothing better to do, or they hang out at each other’s places, though Louis prefers his apartment because – in his words – it’s more lived in and breathable.

For the next month and half though, like clockwork or a regular thing; something you come to expect and would feel strange if it _didn’t_ happen is Harry coming to the diner at half past five for breakfast. Technically, which Niall remind Zayn to tell Harry – not that he does – one pancake cannot, by any standards whatsoever, be considered as a breakfast. A snack, maybe a light dessert or more of a waste of perfectly good oiled pan and Niall’s flipping wrist, yes, sure. Zayn can’t just turn away a customer like that, however; and if he’d never turn away Harry even if he ordered a breath of fresh air is beside the point.

Every morning, Harry shows up with a big smile and a new taste for his pancake. Sometimes it’s blueberry, which Zayn thinks is his favorite, others it’s banana or strawberry, but it’s always just the one, a glass of water and some company. So Zayn goes to hang out with Niall until the pancake is done – because Niall is still the best – puts the plate down and sits opposite Harry, even before Harry has the chance to ask sometimes. Zayn’s learned that if he does that, Harry’s smiles extends into dimples and well, Zayn’s been lost in them ever since.

They sit in that center booth, knees almost touching and focus on Harry’s pancake.

Zayn gets to know Harry in his own little ways that he keeps tucked inside his pocket for _someday_ , for when he’s walking home and the sun’s finally decided to wake up the world around him, throwing around long shadows Zayn’s learned to carefully sidestep. It’s something to do, so that he doesn’t fall asleep on his way home.

Harry’s lips are gentle, Zayn’s found. Pink and gentle as he presses a glass to them, drinking a sip and never missing a single drop of water. Harry talks to carefully, drawing out his vowels and shaping his consonants like they hold some meaning all on their own. Without even seeing his legs, Zayn knows that Harry keeps his knees spread and apart, his back slouched slightly over the table with his elbows resting against the edge, which Zayn recognized as the bad posture of being relaxed and comfortable. And he messes with his hair, pulling the short strand just so they’re over his eyes before he flips them all back, like he’s not quite satisfied with it, even though Zayn sympathizes because he’d want to keep his fingers in Harry’s hair too if he could.

Nothing happens, not for a month and a half. While Zayn keeps tucking away the knickknacks Harry gives him, they don’t talk or communicate in any other way than food orders and twenty dollar bills. Zayn isn’t bothered by the silence, doesn’t mind that Harry likes to eat his breakfast or an extremely late dinner in quiet company, he’s actually looking forward to half past five. Even if nothing happens, even if Zayn hasn’t gathered enough courage to say something, _anything_ other than ‘coming right up’, ‘here you go’ and ‘thanks’.

On a cold Monday morning however, everything changes. Zayn’s smart, and not just graduated-college-smart, but _smart_ smart, the kind that counts in life, that comes in handy, the kind that matters. It’s especially convenient when it comes to doing laundry. For four years, Zayn was doing laundry with Louis, which meant the laundry room in the basement of their dorm was just another hangout spot where more words were exchanged than dirty clothes washed. They did their laundry on Sundays, because that was when it was the busiest, when you could meet someone, and sober on top of that. Mostly.

But Zayn’s done his fair share of socializing with people that won’t matter as soon as the drier rings, he’s done waiting in line and Zayn’s especially over the whole other people looking at your dirty deeds while you’re trying to keep your head down.

So now that he’s been on his own two feet for three years, Zayn proudly does his laundry on Monday mornings. He finishes his Sunday shift, mops the diner, does the dishes, hugs a sleepy Niall goodbye and marches straight to the Laundromat between the diner and his building with a backpack full of dirty clothes, ready to just get it over with so he can crawl to his bed. It’s kind of nice, actually.

Zayn’s thinking about Harry – specifically his lips – and how he won’t see him till Tuesday – specifically, his lips. Really, it’s Harry’s fault that Zayn hasn’t been able to stop thinking about his mouth, because without the distraction of talking, it’s the only thing Zayn can focus on. Honestly. And the more Zayn thinks about Harry, his blue shirt with a pink flamingo print, or that loud yellow with even louder flowers, the pink one that Zayn can’t wait to see again, the more he can feel his lips stretch into a smile.

The smile is quickly replaced by an open mouthed gape though, because as Zayn pushes the door open and the scent of detergent burst onto him, he sees Harry loading the washing machine in the corner.

A split second passes when Zayn’s trying to figure out how he can bolt as far away as fast as possible without being noticed, already thinking about doing his laundry on Tuesday morning, though that would throw off his entire week, before Harry turns around, sees him and grins.

“Hi,” Harry says with a lilt in his voice.

“Hey,” Zayn drawls, sounding awkward to his own ears.

“Laundry?”

“Yeah.”

Another grin and Harry’s back to loading up the machine. That’s that, Zayn thinks. It’s all he’s getting out of him today, so maybe this won’t be so bad. Zayn doesn’t know if he’s ever been that hopelessly optimistic before.

He starts walking towards his regular machine slowly, like he’s approaching a deer or avoiding a pit of snakes on his way there, keeping his eyes both in front of him and on trained on Harry, just in case. It’s fine though, because of course Harry’s busy with his own thing, as should be the case for Zayn. So, careful as ever, Zayn puts his backpack on the floor and gets busy.

By the time he’s putting in the detergent he got on sale last week, Zayn’s less tensed, less nervous and somewhat out of his head. He’s almost forgotten that Harry doing god knows what somewhere behind him. Almost, because Zayn could swear he’s felt a pair of eyes burning a hole somewhere on his back for the last five minutes, but he’s not overthinking it. Really, Zayn’s been quietly whistling to himself, this tune that’s been in his head since he started his shift.

But it’s like a switch flips when he turns around, ready to hop onto the washing machine with his sketchpad in hand, not at all going for cool and collected. He’s nothing but, because Harry’s right there, leaning against the machine opposite Zayn’s, a whole line away from his own.

Zayn smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He still jumps onto the machine though, because he doubts he could keep standing around, all awkward feet and nothing to do with his hands. Zayn doesn’t know how to do this exactly. But, he’s willing to try.

So he jumps up and puts his sketchpad down against everything his brain is screaming at him – like to run away, for instance, or to just grab the sketchpad and not pay Harry any mind. And Zayn would, he’s love nothing but, except for how Harry’s looking at him with this soft smile, like he’s expecting something from Zayn. Something, but Zayn has no idea what.

“Finished your shift?” Harry asks. He’s not looking at Zayn though, instead playing with his rings, twisting and twisting them around on his fingers.

“Yeah,” Zayn nods. “At six.”

“Oh,” Harry looks up with a frown. “I thought…”

And Zayn would love to know what it is that goes through Harry’s head, but he doesn’t ask when Harry leaves the sentence hanging like that, like a helium balloon without a string. When Zayn just keeps looking back at him, Harry sighs and shrugs.

“I though your shifts were longer.”

Zayn chuckles at Harry’s disgruntled tone. “A seven hour shift is long enough for me.”

“Seven hours?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says and smiles when Harry jumps up on a machine as well. He’s definitely less elegant that Zayn is at least. It shouldn’t, but it eases Zayn’s nerves a little. “Eleven to six.”

“So you work doing the weird hours, huh?”

“Nah, it’s the quiet ones.”

“So no strange customers?” Harry asks with just a hint of a smirk.

And Zayn’s clever enough to pick up on it, he’s just clueless as to what to do with it, so he says, “Just the one,” and hopes he doesn’t miss the mark.

Apparently, he doesn’t, because Harry laughs with this quiet burst of air and his dimples on display. Good job, Zayn thinks and gives himself an imaginary pat on the back.

“I bet,” Harry shakes his head.

Zayn has a moment of intense panic, because he knows the balls in his court, that he’s the one who has to say something and the only thing going through his head is a loud and annoying buzz, the kind of static that reaches the tips of his toes. The whole ‘Get to know’ article flashes in front of his eyes, but nothing sticks for long enough to actually help him.

“You do that a lot, you know,” Harry saves him, though not really.

“Huh?”

“You frown a lot,” he explains, like it clears anything up for Zayn.

“No I don’t.”

Harry smirks again. This time, Zayn doesn’t even try to wonder what it could mean. “I’ve been watching you do it for a month, but sure, you don’t frown.”

And the only thing Zayn says to that, is “A month and a half,” like the awkward person that he is.

“That doesn’t help your case, you know?”

Zayn laughs, realization daunting on him. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

And then – then something clicks. It’s like a shift of the tide, a swooping of wind, like all the trees change color all at once and Zayn doesn’t think twice before he opens his mouth to say something.

“When did you move?”

“As soon as I finished college?”

“What did you study?”

“Art history. You?”

“Still in school. Law.”

“Well look at you, future lawyer.”

“Hopefully,” Harry says and crosses his fingers. They both laugh and then Zayn shows him his tattoo, the one on his forearm that was one of his firsts. Harry shows him his mermaid. Zayn counters it with his tiger which makes Harry smirk again and Zayn forgets to breathe when Harry kindly displays his butterfly – along with his toned abs. It goes on like that until they both mention the ones that aren’t for public show. Zayn doesn’t know who wants the see the other’s more. It’s definitely him.

They talk about their families, how Zayn misses his sisters almost every day and his parents every third. Harry says his family’s back in California, which is the reason why he’s here, like that should be obvious. Zayn doesn’t get it, but it doesn’t seem like the right moment to ask.

It takes them a month and a half, but once they start talking, it’s like they can’t stop. They do their laundry together on that day, Harry waiting with Zayn until his last load is dried, and walk back to their building, still talking, still laughing, and Zayn never thought he’d get to have so many things to put in his pocket. Not about Harry and definitely not about a boy he likes.

\--

Zayn’s apartment has never been this clean. He woke up sometime after noon, when the sun was high in the sky; when people were about go on their lunch break while Zayn just poured cereal into a bowl of milk. He woke up with a spring in his step and a plan in mind, which really only included one item: make the apartment presentable.

So Zayn did. He moped the floor, practically scrubbed it clean, he did the dishes, cleaned his bathroom for the first time in so long, he was embarrassed to even remember. Zayn organized his closet, because he was on a roll, ready to get rid of the last ball of dust he could find. He opened all the windows and his front door to get some fresh air flowing through the place, and inadvertently inviting Mrs. Dubcek over for a quick chat.

She offered him dinner again, promised to make whatever Zayn’s favorite meal is, which she’s done many times before and just like all of those times, it didn’t work, except that now – and probably for the first time ever – Zayn had an actual excuse: Harry was coming over later.

Harry, who is an Aquarius, which is apparently a very important piece of information, because he’s everything his zodiac sign is supposed to be, has been a regular customer at the diner for more than three months. Three months of waking up every morning at fifteen past five to make it to the diner at exactly half past.

“Having a routine is important,” he told Zayn one morning, because they talk now. They talk enough loudly sometimes, that even Niall comes to settle them down on occasion, but Zayn can’t be bothered.

He doesn’t care if he laughs too loudly or if Harry stars on one of his long, twisty, mostly nonsensical stories with such enthusiasm, the intensity of his voice gets away from him sometimes, because Zayn knows he’s a typical Aquarius – whatever that means – and his mom’s name is Anne, his older sister is Gemma and Harry calls them every day. Harry always wanted to be a lawyer, but he can’t decide on his field, though he’s pretty sure he’ll do something ‘for the people’ or the environment. If he can land on something that covers both at once, it would be perfect. His favorite breakfast food are pancakes, but he doesn’t like to overload in the morning, so he always orders one and sipping on water slowly, _drop drop drop_ , is meant to be healthy. Zayn had no idea.

But now he knows. Zayn knows so much, his pockets are bursting. Zayn knows what Harry’s favorite color is and why. The one time Harry broke the tiniest bone on his ankle, his favorite tattoo and his next one, the song that makes him happy and the one he can’t listen to anymore because it makes him cry; Zayn knows it all.

And the best thing is that Harry’s pockets are full to the brim as well. He listens, nods and hums in all the places Zayn wants him to. By this point, Harry probably knows more about Zayn than Louis does, and Louis, the noisy bastard that he is, knows a lot about Harry too. Though Zayn carries some of the blame for that as well, because he can’t _not_ talk about Harry when all he thinks about has something to do with him.

Which might be the reason Zayn got so brave. He tried to take a step back and find the reason why he was so upfront, so hopeful and bold yesterday when he asked Harry, “Wanna come over by my place tomorrow?” right when they were meant to part ways. Zayn’s chalked it up to today being a Monday and since Harry’s usual laundry day is Sunday evening, because Aquarius’s are “people people” – his words, not Zayn’s – Zayn thought wasting a perfectly good day without Harry just wasn’t an option. It’s a good thing Harry agreed with a wide smile and a promise to be there.

And Zayn should’ve known. Harry had told him – more than once – that he hates being late and he hates when people are late. He values time and he’s aware of the impression tardiness makes, so Zayn really should’ve known he’d be fifteen minutes early, but when there’s a knock on Zayn’s door before he’s been able to put a clean t-shirt on, he’s still surprised.

Answering his door in only his jeans was _not_ the impression Zayn intended to make. Or maybe it was, subconsciously, but he definitely didn’t mean to make Harry go, “Wowza, I didn’t we were there yet, Zayn,” before even taking a step into his apartment.

“Oh god, no, I’m sorry, you’re just early and I haven’t been able to –”

“It’s fine,” Harry says slowly, because he’s learned that Zayn needs more time to process certain things – unintentional innuendos being one of those things. “Go put a shirt on while I get this baby started.”

Zayn huffs an, “Okay,” turns around and is almost in his bedroom when Harry adds a quick, “Love the lips,” that makes Zayn both blush and smirk.  It’s an unusual sensation.

The ‘baby’ Harry’s been referring to is _The Shawshank Redemption_. When they got to talking about music and books and movies and every other media available today, the talked favorites and hates, regrets and wishes. One of Harry’s guilty pleasures was Shania Twain – the discography – while Zayn’s both regret and wish was to see _Shawshank_ , and while Zayn kept quiet when Harry waxed poetic about Shania, Harry almost upturned the table when Zayn confessed he’s never seen the movie.

“The best movie of all time Zayn, not _just_ a movie.”

Zayn snorted. “I didn’t say _just_.”

“You have to stress that it’s the best though. It deserves the stress,” Harry made this chopping movement with his hands, adding extra _stress_ to the whole thing. Zayn found it adorable, but also unnecessary. He is aware of _Shawshank’s_ importance.

So when Zayn asked Harry over, watching the movie was the only logical thing to do. Or the only thing Harry allowed to be on their itinerary. Again, Zayn’s stomach swooped with affection. It’s been doing that all night actually, because for every line of the movie, Harry has an either appropriate or a wildly hilarious reaction. His laughs aren’t measured or quiet breaths, but loud bursts of sound that make Zayn laugh more than the movie does. He gets very concentrated during the serious scenes, and loud during what he calls the key parts. It’s a good thing Zayn barely gets to hear a line of the movie during those _key_ parts.

It dawned on Zayn that he’d have to see the movie again by himself if he actually wants to _see_ it. Which gets Zayn to thinking that he wouldn’t mind having to watch movies over again if it meant he’d get to see them with Harry as well. It’s his own fault too though, because Zayn could just watch the movie instead of watch Harry watch the movie. It’s a very _meta_ ordeal altogether, but Zayn doesn’t remember the last time he’s had this much fun.

“This is the best part,” Harry says dramatically. He plants his feet on Zayn’s couch and wraps his arms around his knees, leaning closer to Zayn as he does it. And if Harry wanted Zayn to pay close attention to what’s happing on the screen, well then he shouldn’t have made himself so comfortable in the crook of Zayn’s arm. “Zayn,” Harry whispers sharply. “Stop looking at me and just watch the movie.”

Zayn clears his throat and turns his head towards the TV. He didn’t even know he was looking down at Harry and getting his hand caught in the cookie jar blurs his brain, but only for a second, because Harry’s the one who leaned into him. Harry the one who suggested watching the movie, who said he’d be over at nine instead of two in the afternoon. Zayn did do the inviting, but Harry did the setting up.

Zayn watches the movie. He’s been following the storyline well enough to know the ending is absolutely brilliant and the movie is no less great, that it deserves being dubbed the best. And Zayn’s been keeping an eye on Harry too, so he knows that if he were to suggest another movie night, Harry’s agree. He’d most likely agree. Harry probably wouldn’t say a hard _no_ , which Zayn is counting as a win, even if he did spend two and a half hours appreciating the sounds Harry kept making more than Morgan Freeman’s performance.

“So?” Harry asks and straightens his back, before the credits even begin to roll. “What did you think?”

“It was good,” Zayn nods.

“What?”

“What?” Zayn tries to keep a straight face, but he’s sure his lips are pulling up as Harry’s getting ready for a speech.

“‘It was good.’ Congratulations for the understatement of the year. ‘It was good,’” Harry repeats again, shaking his head.

“But it is good,” Zayn defends. He even throws his hands in the air, like he doesn’t understand what the problem is. Getting Harry going isn’t easy, Zayn’s learned, but it’s not impossible.

“It’s not _good_ , Zayn,” Harry crosses his arms over his chest and pouts. “It’s _the best,_ it’s amazing, it’s absolutely perfect. I mean, did you even watch the movie?”

Really, Zayn’s played himself. He tried to get Harry started on one of his arguments that seem to go on forever, one of those where Harry gets so animated and passionate about something, his eyes practically glow, his hands all over the place as he does his best to convince you into something he believes in wholeheartedly. Watching that, Zayn bets, is better than any movie.

But it’s easy to change routes. “It was kind of hard to hear, actually,” he says, and it works like a charm.

“Well I’m sorry for enjoying myself.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just watch it again.”

“No no, it won’t happen again. The next movie we see I’ll be quiet like a mouse. You won’t even know I’m here. I’ll even sit in the hallway just to make sure,” Harry huffs out angrily, but he’s still pouting, still half lodged into Zayn’s side as he flings his hands from side to side. And as much as Zayn wants to keep going, just because Harry being annoyed is always fun to see, all he can think about is kissing Harry. Right now in this very moment, what it would be like to just lean in and kiss him, see if he tastes like blueberry pancakes.

Against all his better judgment and practically the core of who he is a human being, Zayn grabs a hold of Harry hand, the one that’s still waving in the air, and asks, quietly, because he doesn’t think he could do it with full voice, “Can I kiss you?”

And against all odds, Harry says, “Yes,” before he’s the one who’s leaning in and kissing Zayn.

Their teeth catch and so does Zayn breath. It’s nothing more than a peck, a quick touch of lips, but Harry cups Zayn’s cheek and runs his thumb along his jaw, and before he knows it, Zayn never wants to move again. He chases after Harry’s lips once he moves away and they both laugh before their lips catch again, tasting each other’s smiles for a fraction of a second.

Harry hums and Zayn feels a surge of either a shiver or courage run up his spine, but it’s enough to make him part his lips and kiss Harry with a new sense of want. At the first touch of their tongues, Zayn swears he feels it somewhere in his toes, bursting in his chest like he could set the whole world on fire. And it feels like he does when he presses closer to Harry and grabs for the back of his shirt.

Harry comes easily though, maneuvering over Zayn’s thighs until he’s sitting in his lap and for all his long limbs and clumsiness, he doesn’t break their kiss once. Zayn keeps making these noises, little grunts that he’s never heard before, because Harry keeps deepening the kiss, sucking on Zayn’s bottom lip and biting into it before he licks over it, as if to seal his bite.

It’s been a long time since Zayn’s been this close to someone, since he’s had a body underneath his fingertips and on top of his lap, shifting around in small eights that make his hips jump off the couch to chase the feeling. It’s been long enough that Zayn needs to catch his breath, because he doesn’t want to rush into anything. Zayn doesn’t want to have to think through blurry thoughts that only seem to focus on one thing and one thing only – getting more more more.

But before Zayn can muster up the sheer willpower to take his lips off of Harry’s, Harry’s the one who groans and leans away, but only so far that their foreheads are still touching.

“I should really get upstairs,” Harry says quietly, probably afraid to break the moment they’re still in. It only makes him sound unconvincing.

But Zayn says, “You should,” and he thinks it’s only because he’d agree to anything Harry says right now. He adds a quiet, “Or could stay,” too.

“I can sleep on the couch.”

Zayn’s nodding before Harry’s able to get the words out, saying, “I’ll bring you a pillow,” against Harry’s lips, because he can’t help himself – they’re right there.

After what feels like a short infinity of quick pecks and more lip biting, Zayn’s leaning against the doorway of his bedroom watching how Harry gets comfortable on his couch. He’s twisting around the blanket Zayn brought him, covering himself up to his bare chest so that only his legs are covered up. It was a sight to see when Zayn back to the living room with a pillow, Harry sitting on his couch in nothing but a pair of black underwear. If Zayn’s ever had any semblance of self-control, it was all used up in that moment.

“Are you comfortable?” Zayn asks. He feels like he has to. He wants Harry to say no so he can offer to share his bed instead.

Harry says, “Yeah, very,” with the kind of sigh that tells Zayn he’ll be asleep in the next minute. It’s not so much disappointment as it’s fondness that Zayn feels in his chest.

“Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight, Zayn.”

They look at each other with the kind of smiles on their faces that Zayn can neither believe he’s seeing on Harry’s face nor feeling on his own. Zayn turns off the lights and leaves the door half open before he falls onto his bed. He’s asleep before his face even hits the pillow.

\--

Zayn always wakes up with the sun on Tuesdays. It’s like their connected somehow, by a string, something metaphorical or literally. It might be all the mornings they’ve spent greeting each other, one waking up while the other was off to sleep. Zayn’s always preferred sunny days to rain, waking up to the sun instead of a storm. It may just be that Mondays are the only days Zayn goes to sleep with the moon in the sky.

This Tuesday though, when Zayn opens his eyes, his room is still pitch dark even with the curtains drawn closed. This Tuesday, it’s not the sun that wakes him up, it’s something else. It’s someone else, Zayn realizes with his eyes still closed and dreams still at the edge of his thoughts.

“Harry?” he croaks.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, but your couch is so uncomfortable, Zayn, I couldn’t sleep.”

Even half asleep, Zayn swears he can hear the pout in Harry voice, so he turns toward where he thinks Harry is standing next to his bed and lifts the covers for him. Zayn doesn’t even think twice before he’s scooting closer to Harry once he’s lying next to him, but Harry must’ve had the same idea, because he’s moving closer too, wrapping one arm around Zayn’s waist and placing the other hand on his neck to draw him even closer.

Their lips touch lightly, a striking contrast to how they kissed before. There’s no heat behind it now, no heady need or desperate want that fuels the fire behind it. Zayn kisses Harry’s lips and the corner of his mouth, all along his jaw, placing the final kiss on his temple as Harry slots their legs together.

Zayn would say something about Harry’s cold feet, but he doesn’t remember the last time he was this comfortable.

\--

The second time Zayn wakes up, it is to the sun shining though his open window, but it’s the face full of hair that wakes him and the cramp in his arm from clutching Harry like he’s afraid to let go. Zayn’s not used to waking up with someone else in his bed and before he’s fully awake, he has a momentary lapse wondering what he should do. And what has to be for the first time in his life, Zayn quickly decides to just go with it.

He buries his face closer to the back of Harry’s neck and hold on tighter, but not like he doesn’t want to let go. More like he doesn’t have, like it’s okay to bask in the warm and closeness of Harry’s soft body. Zayn knows how it sounds, to have gone so long without touching or being touched by someone who matters, who leaves a dull buzz beneath your skin with their fingertips. And although Zayn’s not a very physical person, doesn’t crave for human contact like Louis does, he could still feel this itch sometimes – different from the one gets when a customer is staring at their plate hunched over the counter, but not by much. Zayn’s only human and he’s wondered what it’d feel like, if he’d cave and chase after a nameless buzz just for the need of it. But he didn’t, because it’s much more electrifying when it’s not a faceless touch, when it’s Harry’s who’s pressing back against Zayn’s chest, as if Zayn isn’t holding onto him tightly enough.

“Morning,” Harry rasps and tries to turn, but Zayn doesn’t let him, keeps his arms firmly around Harry’s middle.

“Good morning.” Zayn murmurs, displeased that it’s already here.

“Let me turn around.”

“My breath stinks.”

“I don’t care,” Harry whines and Zayn smiles. He doesn’t want to rush himself, hates to be optimistic for even a fraction of a second, but he still thinks this is something he could get used to.

“You’ve been warned,” he gives in and lifts his arm for long enough to let Harry twist his body around until he’s only a breath away from Zayn and even that distance doesn’t last long, because as soon as his hand is back on Harry’s waist, he’s leaning in and kissing Zayn, like Zayn said absolutely nothing.

“It’s not that bad,” Harry mumbles against his lips as he kisses him again and hums, like he’s agreeing with himself.

“You really are strange, aren’t you?”

“I thought we’ve already established that.”

“Then we’ve just confirmed it again,” Zayn chuckles, but he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t want to kiss Harry as well, first thing he woke up, as if it’s normal, like they’ve done it a million times before. “Not that I mind.”

“You better not,” Harry pouts prettily and Zayn has to kiss him again for it. “And I better go.”

“It’s barely seven in the morning,” Zayn frowns and leans a little back so that he can see Harry clearly instead of just his eyes.

“Then I definitely have to go.” With another quick peck, Harry’s rolling away from Zayn and off the bed, leaving a warm echo of the night in his stead.

“Where?” Zayn knows he sounds too put off to play it off cool, but he still tries and pretends like he’s nothing but.

“Well, classes for a start.”

Right, law student – Zayn always needs some time to fully wake up. He’s up now though, heaving himself after Harry to watching him scatter around the couch for his clothes and boots if nothing else.

“Yeah, okay.” Zayn still sounds so disappointed, it’s like his words bleed with a silent plea to stay. But instead of letting it get to his head – or to Harry’s ears – he says, “Come by the diner in the morning?”

Hoisting his shirt over his shoulders and leaving it open, as if he knows Zayn won’t be able to look anywhere else, Harry sends him a bright smile and a nod. “Of course.” He manages to sound so genuine that Zayn smiles back at him. He doesn’t think he’s gone through so many emotions in the span of five minutes before. At least not at seven in the morning.

Grabbing his boots and walking over to Zayn, Harry leans over to him and pecks his lips. He stays close as he murmurs, “I’d really _really_ love to stay.”

“Mhm,” Zayn agrees quietly, humming against Harry’s lips. This, he doesn’t want to get used to. He wonders if there’s anything that would make Harry stay a bit longer.

“But I can’t be late.” Harry kisses him again, softly and lingering. “See you in the morning,” he says, smiling again and with that, he turns around and walks away, boots in hand and socketed feet patting softly on the floor. As the door clicks closed behind Harry, Zayn wants to run after him, so he buries himself underneath the covers of his bed instead and falls asleep for another two hours just to be sure he stays put.

\--

It’s early afternoon when Zayn runs out of cigarettes. It’s been a long time – probably since his last exam – that Zayn’s smoked this much. He usually resigns himself to two or three cigarettes a day, just to keep the habit going, but the previous night’s made a mess of his head, looping a sole imagine in front of his eyes no matter how Zayn’s tried to distract himself and keep his hands busy enough so as not to pick of the phone and text Harry.

He’s trying to play it cool even if he’s been the opposite since he fully woke up. Those breathy little moans and the taste of his tongue, the pink of Harry’s swollen lips have been on repeat in front of Zayn’s eyes, and smoking’s helped to blur all of it a little. He’s already gone through half a pack and if he wants to survive until his shift will keep him busy enough to forget or at least keep at the edge of his mind, he needs to go buy another pack.

That’s how he finds himself standing in front of his building next to Dubcek with a puff of smoke twirling past his lips and his eyes on the moving truck that’s being unloaded at their building’s steps. He bets Simone and Marybeth have been perched on their windowsills since the truck’s got here.

“What’s going on?” Zayn asks, as a bulky guy grabs a box from the truck and starts to carry it inside.

“Oh,” Mrs. Dubcek says dreamily. Zayn already feels for the guy. “It’s our new neighbor.”

“What? Who moved out?”

“It was the young fella,” Simone says with a sigh that’s supposed to sound sad.

Zayn nods, take another pull of his cigarette. “Second floor?”

“No no,” Marybeth pipes up, but she doesn’t look at Zayn as she says, “The polite one from fourth.”

Zayn’s only felt his world stop a handful of times. The first time it happened, it was when Zayn realized what exactly that feeling he got in his stomach when he looked at Tad meant. When he figured out why he gave Kevin his coloring book, Zayn could feel how the Earth stopped spinning before it came crashing down all around him with the kind of epiphany he didn’t know what to with. The second time, it was when his grandfather died, but that was different altogether. The world came to a stop in a sudden burst of grief and resent, anger and despondency. It took a while to get it moving again, to relive all of the memories that have tasted bittersweet ever since his mother sat him down with watery eyes and told him the news.

It’s something else this time around too, because standing there with his cigarette dangling from his lips, Zayn isn’t even sure if the world ever spun in the first place. He drops the butt and steps on it with a thump, before he wordlessly walks away from Dubcek, Simone, Marybeth and everything he thought was real.

Zayn doesn’t think Harry said anything. Zayn’s been known to drift away from time to time, to overthink and daydream when he should be paying attention, but he listened to Harry, he’s sure of that. Zayn had followed Harry’s dripping honey slow stories, paid more attention to every word Harry said, practically hung on his every sentence, more tightly than Zayn remembers having done before. Pacing up and down his living room, Zayn could probably repeat any of their conversations word for word if he wanted to, if he didn’t feel heat in the pit of his stomach or bile rising up in his throat.

He’s not proud of it, but Zayn spends the entire day smoking and wondering what he did wrong, what he missed and how he could possibly think Harry and him were friends, because friends, Zayn’s pretty sure, tell each other about moving out and moving away and leaving after they sleep in your bed. _Friends_ don’t kiss like Zayn and Harry did last night, but then Zayn’s never had a friend like Harry, so he doesn’t think he can be absolutely positive.

Zayn has a hard time believing now, after he’s made a perfect mess of everything he once thought to be true, that he thought, if he squinted long and hard enough, that Harry may have liked him. _Liked_ him liked him. Because if Harry felt anything, even remotely towards Zayn, he’d tell him that he was about to move out of their building and god knows where. Even across the street.

Harry could’ve just thrown it out there before they started the movie, after Zayn kissed him, as he crawled into Zayn’s bed in the middle of the night or when he was promising to be at the diner in the morning. Zayn wonders if Harry’s even going to show up. For some reason, he highly doubts it.

Zayn’s shift goes along with his mood. He shows up fifteen minutes late because he couldn’t be bothered to leave his apartment on time and then he has to listen to Louis' speech about how important being on time is. For the first time in a long time, Zayn glowers at Louis until his words lose all the heat behind them and his eyes do that concerned thing that Zayn’s fairly used to.

“Okay, what happened?”

“Nothing,” Zayn grumbles and throws his backpack on the floor, clearly indicating that something _has,_ in fact, happened.

“Spit it out, I don’t have all day.”

Zayn groans, but he knows Louis will get it out of him sooner or later and knowing Louis, he’s gonna do it sooner. “Harry moved.”

Louis gives him a pointed look. “Yes? And?”

“And he moved without telling me about it? I know I’m not overreacting, Louis, so don’t try to make me think I’ve gone crazy.”

“Are you and Harry dating?”

“We’re…” Zayn trails of, because he’s convinced himself him and Harry have never been anything at all. Maybe he’s gone slightly crazy, but not by his own volition.

“Would you say you’re friends?”

“First of all, I don’t appreciate you’re tone and second, yeah, we _were_.”

“Okay,” Louis hums and narrows his eyes. “And you’re sure he didn’t mention moving? You’re not the best listener, Zayn.”

Zayn loves Louis to the moon and back, but in this moment, he wants to scream and tear his head off. Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever felt something so viscerally. His feeling for Harry right now fail in comparison. “I listened, okay? I liked him Louis, like really liked him and well, something happened last night,” he says, giving Louis a _look_ that he’ll understand. “I thought there was something there, but I don’t know.”

“And you’re sure he moved?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “A guy is moving into his place today.”

“That’s a bit fast, isn’t it?”

“It’s New York, of course it’s fast. It’s a great building.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you,” Louis sighs and Zayn can feel his empathy. He’s reminded once again that he’s lucky to have a friend like Louis. And Niall, who swear he’s taking pancakes off the menu when Louis tells him what happened. “Except that maybe, and hear me out,” Louis says when Zayn narrows his eyes at him, already knowing what’s coming. “If you like Harry, then wait. He could have a perfectly good explanation. Just, give him a chance, okay?”

“I don’t think I like you anymore.”

“Yeah, I love you too.”

“Unless it’s an amazing explanation, I’m not listening to him,” Zayn deadpans, stubborn as always.

“There’s a reason why you like him,” Louis says wisely, and Zayn wants to remind him he’s not a philosophy major. “Keep that in mind.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn huffs for the last time before Louis leaves with a tight hug and a promise to come by his place tomorrow before his shift. Zayn doesn’t mention how he doesn’t trust promises anymore.

In the middle of his shift, Zayn takes a break. He’s never taken a break before, an actual half an hour pause where Niall has to do all the work, because Zayn’s never needed the time to collect himself as much as he does now. It’s also become a thing now, except that he’s in the back alley instead of the booth that’s become Harry’s, and it’s five in the morning instead of half past five. Also, the break was less Zayn’s choice as Niall yelled at him – albeit affectionately – that if he screws up one more order, he’s gonna be in charge of cooking as well. It has not been Zayn’s day.

In the moment as he lights a cigarette and leans against the brick wall, Zayn thinks he final gets the silent company. It’d be nice to have someone here, just to sit with and not necessarily talk, just be there with Zayn. He wants to share his silence with someone un-intrusive, who’d just sit there and give him space, who’d order one sole pancake and a glass of water.

Zayn spends half an hour the alley smoking and wishing Harry would show, all the while preparing to be disappointed as soon as he gets back to the front. When he walks past the kitchen, Niall gives him the kind of tight smile that lets Zayn knows he’s shit out of luck.

But then taking what would be his final step towards his post at the register, he spots Harry sitting in his booth with his pancake and glass of water, cutting it into pieces without carrying them into his mouth.

“Your boy showed up,” Niall says carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll spook Zayn off. And it almost does.

Zayn takes a break and nods at Niall. “Harry?” he says, his voice less tender than Niall’s had been.

“Hey,” Harry smiles at him over his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?”

The smile slips off his face and is instead replaced with a frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I thought you moved out?” Zayn hates the sound of his voice, vulnerable, almost broken.

“Just kinda, yeah,” Harry nods, clearly not getting what Zayn’s trying to say.

And Zayn doesn’t really know what he’s trying to say anymore, so he just shakes his head and hopes Harry will elaborate all by himself, but he just ends up shrugging and drawling a slow, “Yes?”

“I thought… I mean…” Here comes the embarrassment. “I thought you left.”

Harry chuckles. Zayn can feel it resonate in his chest. “Yeah, I moved last week, but only across the hall.”

“What? You moved in with Al?” Zayn doesn’t think this could be any more confusing.

“Well yeah, he’s my grandpa.”

Zayn tries to blink his way out of shock. “Grandpa?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs and although Zayn’s been frustrated and confused and angry, because he thought he had a good reason to be, he relates to that sigh. It carries something with the gust of breath, a labor, a hardship, some story Zayn wants to hear if Harry would tell it. “He’s been in a slump lately and I thought it would be better if I kept a closer eye on him, so I moved,” he shrugs. “I’m worried about him most days.”

“That’s– I mean, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah.” Harry nods, like he’s accepting Zayn’s empathy. “But,” he shakes his head, “you thought I left?”

“Um…”

“Zayn,” Harry sighs again, but he’s also smiling this time, scooting towards the window and patting the spot next to him. Zayn smiles sheepishly, but still sits down. He tangles his fingers together and looks down at his lap. Harry brings him out of his thoughts with a bump of their shoulders and a quiet, but sincere, “I like you.”

It’s so plain and simple that Zayn has a bit of a hard time understanding. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles at him, leaning closer as he does. “And hopefully, this is the part where you tell me you like me too?”

Zayn laughs, shaking his head, because he can’t believe that a boy, that this boy right next to him actually likes him. “I do, I like you too.”

“Great!” Harry shouts, probably scaring half the customers. “Then I can finally take you out on a date!”

\--

**Author's Note:**

> You get extra points if you know where Mrs Dubcek is from.


End file.
